The Golden Centurions
by PhoenixTailAndHolly
Summary: In the dead of night, Hogwarts is visited by a stranger. Winding his way through the castle at ease, he will stand guard against the threat that looms over our world. A threat none have faced before.
1. Chapter 1

Silent corridors. Suits of armour standing in the gloom, as night's deep caress is broken only a stray candle's flickering flame. He passes noiselessly, silent as a hunting lion. His eyes need no light; not anymore. He's used to the dark; finds comfort in the absence of light. His hood, wide and heavy, obscures any outline his face might have given away. He is wide and tall, obviously muscled, but nimble as a gazelle and light on his feet. he crosses the corridor without fail; he knows it like the back of his hands.

He enters a corridor with windows, and the outline of his appearance is made visible had anyone been around to see it. He wears a dark outfit. Brown hood and cape, black clothes. His belt buckle reflects what little light is present. The windows are high up and small; he would not have chosen this route if it had been any different. Voices coming from an adjacent corridor. He smiles inwardly, knowing exactly which teachers are doing their rounds there. On he walks, secure in the knowledge that none will notice his passing.

He strides take him up. Several shortcuts take him from the dungeon level to the fourth floor in a passage only a handful might have known about. Without fail, without pause, he continues on, higher and higher. He pauses momentarily at the base of the stairwell leading up to the astronomy tower. Breathing in the cool night's air, he resumes walking. His movements are fluid and powerful, measured just right; a warrior's movements. Efficiently striding up two steps at a time, his long legs take him up further, until he reaches his destination.

He walks to the edge of the tower, gazing down over the lake, the green lawn, and the castle. He tastes the air, smells the ancient powers at work protecting the castle and its inhabitants. His gloved hands moving in intricate patterns, he walks along the edge until he completes a full circle. Then, he moves back a step, and closes his eyes. An outsider might have thought him a statue, so still was his body. So still it remained for nearly an hour.

Suddenly: movement! His eyes open and his head turns to the lake. Ripples spread out over its surface as three creatures shamble out. In a blur of movement, he crosses the platform and jumps down the side of the tower; a hundred and fifty foot drop. His body increases in speed as gravity pulls down on him unrelentingly. He falls forward, and his feet find surface in the side of the tower. Running at incredible speed down the side of the tower, he hurdles down faster and faster, directly to greenhouse 3, which was currently inhabited by exactly one sleeping wizard.

Neville Longbottom was lying spread-eagled on a bed of what appeared to be grass, dandelions and clover. Deep in sleep, his mind as a blank, a side-effect of lying on dreamilions, his own creation. The flower, resembling a dandelion, was a symbiote that fed off the dreams of any creature sleeping nearby. The plant was fast becoming a trademark sign for those with troubled sleep.

Had he been awake, Neville would have seen the stranger racing down the side of the astronomy tower heading straight for him. He would also have seen the stranger's last step, pushing away from the astronomy tower with such force that the direction of his fall inclined nearly forty-five degrees. A deep, resonating pound sounded as the stranger landed deftly on the greenhouse, racing on over the roof without breaking stride. Neville shook awake, only catching a last glimpse of the stranger's cape flowing through the wind as he jumped off the greenhouse. Immediately awake, he grabbed his wand from his pocket and strode out after him.

The stranger, meanwhile, ran on. Crossing the green lawn of Hogwarts, he jumped up powerfully, flying up in the air nearly twenty feet, and crossing the distance between him and the creatures in one bound. Neville, coming through the door of the greenhouse, saw his leap, and froze in mid-stride. He watched as the stranger took hold of the middle creature's head an snapped it round violently as he made contact with the ground again. The sickening snap echoed over the lake onto the trees of the forbidden forest. The creature fell down limply, and the other two immediately changed direction. The group had been heading for the main hall of Hogwarts, but the flanking creatures now parted sideways in a perfectly orchestrated symmetrical pattern and halted thirty feet away from the stranger that had just killed their companion. The stranger, now stuck between the two creatures seemed unperturbed, and assumed a position that allowed him to easily keep both creatures in his sight. He seemed ready to jump at the slightest movement.

The impasse went on for what seemed like minutes to Neville. The creatures apparently seemed intent to take in the stranger's appearance. Like birds, they cocked their heads this way and that, obviously assessing the danger. Unlike birds, one of them eventually charged. The creature facing the stranger's back shot forward impossibly fast. As if no acceleration was needed, it flew forward, its maw opened revealing long incisors. The stranger seemed not to react, and Neville almost shouted out a warning until the stranger's body suddenly flew into motion. Grasping a sword Neville was sure hadn't been there moments before, the stranger side-stepped the creature's first attack and parried its second. The sword then moved in an arch at lightning speed, severing the head from the body completely.

The third creature was also in motion. It closed the thirty feet gap in less than a second and attacked ferociously. Each attack was parried with the moving blade, and though no blood flowed from either contestant, it was obvious one of them was winning. The creature attacked without pause, and the stranger was struggling to keep up the defence against the on-going barrage. When the creature made a snap for the stranger's head, he ducked deeply, avoiding the attack only narrowly, but making another parry nearly impossible. The creature immediately responded, slashing one of its sharp paws down. The stranger let go of his sword and made a complicated gesture with his hands. The paw came down, but it was as though it was suddenly locked; some form of resistance was pushing up against it. The creature responded by rearing up, adding its formidable weight to push in against the invisible barrier.

Neville ran forward, whipping his wand and shooting out a curse aimed for the creature's head. The curse hit its target, but without effect. He shot another curse, again without effect. The creature suddenly disengaged with the stranger and burst forward, shooting forward at an incredible speed.

'Neville!' the stranger shouted, 'No!'

Neville stood petrified as the creature came forward, maws opened wide. It was closing the distance fast, until suddenly the creature stumbled and crashed to the ground only feet away from him. The hilt of the stranger's sword was buried deep in the back of its head. Green blood was oozing from the wound.

'That was close,' the stranger said, as he collected the sword. He seemingly sheathed it in his belt, but when he turned around to check the battlefield, Neville noticed that the sword had disappeared again.

'Who are you?', he asked, 'and what are those?'

'These are Centurions,' the stranger said in a strangely familiar voice, 'Guardians. They are highly magical creatures not commonly found in our world. I expect even you haven't seen or heard of them before.'

Neville bent down to inspect the corpse before him. The creature was remarkable. Its head was unlike anything he'd seen before, with two mouths and three eyes. It was shaped somewhat like a potato, and the skin was a matted grey. The body was surprisingly limber, and seemingly built for both quadruped and biped movement. The paws had razor sharp edges, running all the way up to its knee.

'A formidable creature, I assume well worth a five star rating in "Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them". These were runts, perhaps only a decade old.'

The stranger bent down at one of the creatures and placed a hand over its body. His face, which had remained invisibly throughout the entire battle, appeared to drop down slightly.

'You're giving them prayer?' Neville said incredulously. 'Why, this creature nearly killed me. I should just...'

Neville pointed his wand a the creature in front of him and muttered a curse.

'No!' the stranger shouted, his hands ramming Neville's wand hand away. The curse flew ineffectually over the lake. 'Centurions are noble beings. I will not have you desecrate their bodies.'

'Noble?' Neville scoffed as he massaged his wand hand, 'they tried to kill us.'

The stranger sighed. 'Alas, that they did. But you must understand; they are beings outside of the realm of good or evil. Singular in mind and purpose, they were created to do only what they were meant to do. We do not judge them as long as we know neither their purpose nor their motivation.'

'We?' Neville asked, obviously prying.

'We.' the stranger replied, obviously not taking the bait.

Again, Neville was struck with a sense of vague recognition. The hood was still obscuring any detail of the stranger's face, but the sound of the stranger's voice and the casual air with which he spoke seemed awfully familiar. Suddenly Neville realized something.

'How do you know my name?' he asked, recalling the moment in battle just before the stranger had thrown the sword into the back of the attacking creature.

'It is common knowledge that you are the Herbology teacher at Hogwarts, professor Longbottom.'

'True,' Neville said, 'but you called me Neville, not Longbottom.'

The stranger didn't reply. Instead, he walked up to another of the creatures, and again placed his hand on the creature's body. Then, he collected the creature's head and placed it on top of its body. As he turned toward Neville, the stranger saw two hands reaching out for his hood. Quick as he was, he was unable to prevent them from pushing the hood back far enough to expose his face.

'I knew it!' Neville said, as the stranger grasped his wrists in a vice-like grip. 'It is you!'

Ron nodded his head, releasing Neville's wrists slowly. His appearance was different now, in some places quite radically, but apparently Neville still recognised him. He looked straight at him, eyes bulging as he took in Ron's face.

'Y-You,' Neville stammered, 'You look.. errr.. Different.'

Ron barked a laugh at reverberated from the castle and over the lake. Birds that had taken refuge in a nearby tree took flight. Ron looked different indeed. His body was more muscular, more powerful, but that was the least noticeable of the changes. Ron was bald now, and a large scar ran from his forehead to below his right ear. Neville thought Ron's face was covered in tattoos, but he quickly saw that the symmetrical pattern of lines that crossed his face and ran down his neck to his body were just darkly pigmented parts of his skin. Had his skin colour been red, he would have resembled Darth Maul.

'Different indeed,' Ron said, a smile crossing his face. He quickly assessed if and how much he should allow Neville to know. The mere fact that one of their operatives was known to the general public would probably land him a serious talking-to. Still, the situation might still be salvageable. Having Neville on his side might come in handy.

Neville was still looking at him with a fascinated look on his face. It seemed as if a hundred questions were going through his mind. In the end, he asked the most important one:

'Butterbeer?'

'My tastes have grown to like something a bit more powerful, I'm afraid.' Ron replied.

'I've got a bottle of firewhiskey hidden in my office.' Neville said sheepishly.

Together, they entered Hogwarts and walked up to the second floor. There, Neville entered the men's bathroom. After a minute, he came back out, holding a bottle containing a dark red liquid.

'Got someplace quiet where we can open this?'

'I know just the place.'

Three hours later, Ron and Neville were sitting in greenhouse 4. The firewhiskey was nice, and it had had quite an effect on Neville.

'So, I've been talking about my life on Hogwarts for hours now, tell me something about what you've been busy with.'

Ron had been expecting this, and had made up his mind about what to do. 'Well, I guess you've noticed some parts of me have changed a bit. Don't need a wand to perform magic anymore. The changed appearance is a side effect of that. We've been monitoring the Centurions for a few weeks now, ever since the Petticoat disaster.'

'Celia Petticoat?' Neville asked, 'that murdered woman found in Diagon Alley?'

'Yup, talk about the wrong place, at the wrong time. Apparently, she ran a backdoor dragons's eyes dealership. Dragons's eyes can fetch quite a price on the black market, especially if they're from the same dragon. She had an appointment with one of the store owners. A below-the-counter exchange that was scheduled for some time before opening hours of that shop. As she floo'ed out of Diagon Alley's public chimney she stumbled across two Centurions.'

'Those creatures we fought just now?'

'Yes. Obviously, she didn't stand a chance. Might have saved her life if she had just stepped back into the fireplace, but alas, she didn't. We think she might have thought them valuable imported animals, and that she might have used magic on them. Wand magic is useless though. They were made to absorb that type of magical energy. Her curses probably just pissed the creatures off. Since then, we've been trying to find these creatures.'

'We?' Neville said, hoping to gain some information this time.

'We.' Ron replied, 'The Centurions leave specific magical footprints, like a trail of breadcrumbs, you know... We can't predict where they will appear, but the seem to be drawn to highly magical places.'

'So why hasn't anyone seen them before?'

'The Centurions are from another dimension, another world. They have existed seemingly since the dawn of time, and we have found records of them entering into our world only once. We don't know why they are changing their habits. It's.. out of character for them.'

'Another world?' Neville said.

'You know about how the several layers of reality are overlapping to form our own world, right?' Neville nodded to this, having no clue what Ron was talking about. 'Well, a highly skilled wizard can alter these layers to construct new dimensions, new realms of existence. It's bizarrely difficult. Most of these dimensions are obviously artificial, lacking several layers of reality, like colouring, smell or heat. The reality of the Centurions is a perfect balance of the layers though. It's like our own realm, but with its own set of rules and its own set of laws. Did you notice the colour of their skin? That mottled grey? In their own world, they have a vibrant, golden colour. In their own world, they are beautiful.'

Neville couldn't quite imagine how the grotesque monsters dead on the Hogwarts lawn could in any way be beautiful. Perhaps Hagrid might, but Hagrid wasn't really a reliable source for opinions about magical creatures...

Ron reached into a pocket of his pants and drew out a fragile, small egg. It was dark blue, and had little black specks on it.

'I've been running back and forth between Hogwarts and four other locations in Britain since we started our investigation. Though my endurance is great, I can't keep this up much longer. Would you mind standing guard over Hogwarts every Tuesday night? That way, I can get some sleep one night a week.'

'Sure'

'Keep this egg with you at all times. If Hogwarts is visited by the Centurions and I'm not around, break it. I'll know when it happens.'

Neville accepted the egg and put it away in his pocket. 'What happens if I sit on it? Or if it falls out of my pocket in front of a full class?'

'It won't. The shell can only break if you want it to. It can't break by accident.'

The sky overhead was brightening. Dawn was approaching to England. Ron got up and looked out over the castle.

'It never ceases to take my breath away,' he said, a note of nostalgia in his voice. 'You?'

'Every day.'

'It was nice catching up on old times, Neville. It's good to know some things never change.'

Neville nodded and got up too. He was shaky on his legs, remembering the five rounds of firewhiskey they'd shared. Ron seemed totally unaffected. Suddenly, Ron turned to face him, and grabbed his shoulders in a brotherly way. Neville did the same, and so they parted. Ron walked into the gloom of the forbidden forest. Neville expected him to apparate out a soon as he was off of the school grounds. Neville himself sauntered back into Hogwarts, awaiting breakfast. It was a Saturday, so the elves would be serving syrup pancakes.

It was an hour later that the first students began entering the breakfast hall. Some were freshly washed; the early birds that could get up no matter how early it was. Other came down with dishevelled hair; the ones that weren't self-conscious, the lazy boys. One of the first teachers to come down was Hogwarts's short, brown-eyed charms teacher. She sat down next to him, helping herself to some coffee and a bagel.

'You are never going to believe who I spent the night with.'

She looked at him with a wide smile. 'Finally made your move with Hannah, Neville? Took your time though.' She squeezed his arm in a sisterly way, before sipping from her coffee.

'Nope, but thanks for your words of encouragement,' he said morosely, thinking of the many failed attempts to let Hannah know what he felt about her, 'I met Ron.'

For just a second, she seemed frozen in time, her lips inches away from the cup of coffee she held slightly askew. Then, with an ever more shaking hand, she lowered it, until it clanged loudly onto its saucer, spilling some of its contents. Before Neville could react, she got up and ran from the breakfast hall.

'What's wrong?' one of the students asked him, 'Did you have bad news for professor Granger?'

* * *

The elevator doors opened with a soft whoosh. Out, stepped a man. Tired was his expression; weary of a long night of battle and talking. His strides were confident, as was everything else with him. The four long years of training, the experiment, the two years of solitude in the Himalayas; all of it had given him a near-perfect control of his body. Ron could have walked through Hogwarts with his eyes closed. He would have been killed by those Centurions had he not mastered the workings of his body.

He walked past the offices of Terry and Gillian. On the best of days that room was a death-trap, the metallurgist and alchemist concocting devious traps and innovative new designs for weaponry. It had become a running gag to bring a shield along when visiting them, after an intern had deemed it necessary. Still, the results of their work had become essential to the success of their division. Terry and Gillian were brilliant in their fields of work, and combining their skills led to whole that was greater than the sum of its parts. The room seemed quiet now, but you never knew...

Ron passed through a set of glass, automated doors. The room he had now entered was filled with cubicles, one for each pair of employees. The one nearest to the door was Luke and Perry's. It was reasonably neat, though their assortment of odd weapons and magical knick-knacks littered the desks a little. Next up was Roy and Jill's cubicle. She had a fondness for electronics, he for animated video's. It was brilliant to see how their whiteboard was now covered layer upon layer of posters, both of them trying to paste their own posters over the other's. Ron smiled inwardly. It was obvious Jill had a crush on Roy, but he either didn't know, or he pretended that he didn't. She spent half her time at the office looking at him, averting her eyes every time his eyes travelled her way. Ron could understand the dynamics of their relationship more than anyone else at the office.

Across from them was the pink and light blue cubicle of Nilima and Lianne. Nilima, ever the optimist, was a bubbly, sparkling little devil, ever busy making light jokes about the current situation. Ron had never met anyone that couldn't feel better after meeting her. Lianne, her partner, was quite the opposite. Tall and a little set, she was the department sarcast, ever seeing the negative side of things. How they came to be such close friends, and how the intricate interactions between them had never led to a fight was beyond him.

Ron was now at the final pair of cubicles. The blatant mess of his own cubicle (Ron was the only member of the team to work solo) was quite in contrast to the rest of the room. Though it seemed unorganized, Ron prided himself in being able to find any item in his cubicle within ten seconds. There had been talk (and even bets!) about his unorganised mess, but so long as it hadn't interfered with his work, his superiors simply didn't care. Ron sat down behind this desk and turned on the computer. He had one new email message from the Chief, telling him he was a week behind on his field reports, and hinting that if he hadn't received the reports by eight in the morning, Ron would be promoted to a field station in the arctic region. Sighing deeply, Ron booted the software and started typing.

An hour later (it was still very early in the morning) Ron saved his field report about his encounter with the Centurions and leaned back in his chair. He had been tempted to keep some things out of the report, and might have done so a few years ago, but Ron knew how important it was for the department that all activities by operatives were out in the open. His talk with Neville would surely anger his boss (secrecy about the department and its activities was one of the highest priorities), but he knew better than to lie about it. Instead, he had added transcripts of the entire conversation, and had even added a small biography to clarify some points of the conversation.

'Another long day of work', Ron thought, as he stretched out his arms, 'but not one without results.'

He suppressed a yawn.

'Tell me you haven't been posting at Hogwarts again?' a familiar woman's voice said from the cubicle across from his, 'You've had what? One night of sleep this month?'

'Two,' he replied, stretching out again, 'and we're only at the twenty-second...'

Simone smiled ruefully as she eyed him over her computer screen.

Simone had been with the department longer than anyone else (save the Chief), even Ron. She had reportedly been hand-picked from Auror Acadedy by the Superiors, and was one of the first to undergo the Experiment. She was an uncannily brilliant fighter, and prided herself in her mastery of Krav Maga. Ron had sparred with her several times, and had only won once. She was a year younger than him, and had attended school in Sweden, where she was born.

'You really are impossible, Weasley,' she said, rolling her chair back from the desk, 'patrolling a second location in your own time.'

'I told you before, Eriksson,' he replied, 'I have a hunch they are targeting magical places. Remember that first attack? Diagon Alley, we all know there's some dark things going about there. The Centurion in the Department of Transportation? It can't be a coincidence that there just happened to be a collection of more than a hundred portkeys there, to be used for the upcoming England-Germany quidditch match.'

Simone had gotten up and crossed over to his cubicle. They had been debating the Centurion attacks a lot these past few weeks at the office. The opinions varied widely, though most agreed with the Superiors's point of view, that the Centurions were targeting wizards and witches performing magic or carrying potent magical items.

'I know your view on the situation, but I still feel it's largely based on a hunch. There's no real evidence supporting your theory.'

Simone sat down on the edge of his desk, and instantly the tension between them rose. Simone was small, pixie-like, and lithe. She was wearing a plain, black skirt that at best reached down to the middle of her thighs, and a dark green tank top that clung to all the right places. Her naturally blonde hair was cropped short, further solidifying her resemblance to a pixie.

'I still think the evidence is just as valid as the evidence backing the Superiors's view.' Ron said. His eyes were trailing down slowly, from her face, past her bosom and her hips, to her legs. Her skin was milky-white, blemished here and there with a small birthmark. The pigmentation lines that resulted from the experiments were slimmer and curvier on her body than on his. They had a slightly blue-ish tint that matched the colour of her eyes. On the occasions that Ron had sparred with her, he had found out the lines had created a circular, maze-like pattern on her stomach. Her face was relatively clear from lines, compared to the others at the office. Her nose, round and very slightly upturned, was entirely free of them, as were her ears. Two thick lines ran down her face symmetrically, branching off into smaller, thinner lines that curled over her cheeks.

'You might be right', she said, almost as if it didn't mean anything, 'I guess the pattern will become clearer after more attacks.'

'It did.'

She frowned. Her blue eyes, normally fixed just momentarily on something before shooting off to something else, now pierced his eyes. 'Meaning?'

'Meaning I had a rough night, fighting a group of three of those bastards,' Ron replied, stretching himself out again for dramatic effect, 'not to mention having to write a field report about it.'

Simone apparently couldn't believe what he'd just said. Her eyes were still fixed on his, and she was stammering.

'Y-You fought three Centurions? By yourself? At Hogwarts?'

Ron smiled while he enjoyed her awe-struck reaction. Simone was very pretty, and he just couldn't keep from feeling thoroughly pleased with himself over having elicited this response. Their professional relationship had always been overlaid with a slight hint of sexual tension, one of the reasons he refused to be her partner when Greg (her previous partner and on-again, off-again boyfriend) had committed suicide. She'd been devastated by Greg's death, both untimely and unexpected. the Chief had suggested Ron to team up with her. Her performance at work had dropped to dramatic levels, and the Chief told him the Superiors wanted that corrected. Ron still thought the Chief was really trying to ease her suffering by distracting her, though he would never admit to such a thing. It wasn't three days after his refusal that a new recruit was introduced, and partnered with Simone.

As if on cue, the intercom sprang to life. Only one person actually used it, mostly to scoff at his employees. His working hours were unknown to them, and since the door to his office wasn't made of glass and he had his own fireplace, most of them never knew for sure if he was even present until the intercom sprang to life.

Bing! 'Weaseley!', rang through the office, 'My office! Now!'

Simone and Ron shared a quick glance. Another office joke had been the Chief's short messages on the intercom. Someone once loudly wondered what the average word-count was. Since then, everyone had been busy keeping track of it, and after half a year of jotting down numbers, they had found out the average word-count was five.

'I'm afraid you'll have to pen that down somewhere,' Ron said as he casually got up from the chair, 'I think the Chief just read my report.'

She smirked, a wide smile playing on her lips. Again, Ron's mind wandered off.

'Right,' he said, snapping out of his revelry, 'I'll be off then. If I never see you again, tell everyone I've had a decidedly swell time here, with all of you.'

The Chief had an office with a view. They operated on the 44th floor of the Canary Wharf Tower, and though the windows in the central office were blurred by magic to keep the operatives from view, his office's windows were not. He had a corner office, and the light of the rising sun was already bathing his office in warm light. He was busy typing on his computer, so Ron decided to sit in one of the chairs near his desk and wait. After about five minutes, he turned and focussed completely on Ron.

'I've just sent four emails to different Superiors demanding to know just how I'm going to clean up the mess you left behind.'

Ron was afraid this might happen. The Chief didn't take kindly on his operatives spilling classified information to civilians. The superiors were even worse.

'My mess?' Ron replied, slightly angered now, 'If I hadn't been there, on that tower, we'd be mopping up blood off the floors of Hogwarts now!'

Ron instantly knew he'd gone just a little too far. His department was small, and one of the pillars of their ethics was that they simply couldn't be everywhere at the same time.

'Your superiors decided what locations were going to be patrolled,' The Chief said, grabbing for a phone, 'if you don't agree with their decisions, by all means, call them.'

His point was valid. Ron was lower in the hierarchy, and would simply have to follow orders. Patrolling Hogwarts in his off hours was a choice he had made for himself, but on the job, he had to follow orders.

'I still don't feel this night was a mess. I stopped three Centurions from attacking a school full of children.'

His boss frowned. 'I wasn't talking about the Centurions. That was a great job. You botched things up when you imparted sensitive information to a civilian, this... Longbottom.'

'If this is about trust, I can vouch for Neville. He'll take this secret into the grave.'

The Chief got up from his chair. Again, Ron knew the situation in the room had moved into his disadvantage. The Chief rarely walked, and if he did, it wasn't going to be pretty.

'This isn't about trust, Weasley', the Chief said, crossing the room and pausing in front of the windows, 'It's about ethics and orders. It would have been both easier and faster if you had just removed that man's memory. You can't say you didn't have the chance, you were talking to him for hours.'

'I agree,' Ron said, 'but I felt that our first priority was to ensure nothing like this would happen again. Having Longbottom keep an eye open at Hogwarts allows us to better protect Hogwarts.'

'That isn't your decision to make. For now, we'll see how it plays out, but we will wipe his memory if nothing happens.'

The Chief and Ron had an interesting relationship. Though the Chief was his boss, and Ron technically didn't know anything about his past (nor his name for that matter) the two men had instantly taken a liking to each other. Though the physical differences between them couldn't be bigger (their only common denominator was that they were both bald), a deep-seated respect had formed between the two. Ron was in awe of the Chief's ability to head such a difficult department, and his omniscience (the Chief knew. Everything.). Ron knew the Chief respected his elevated status among the operatives. Ron had clocked more hours on the job than anyone else, and though he wasn't technically their superior, every one of his colleagues treated him as such. the Chief also tended to discuss his decisions regarding the operatives with Ron, valuing his opinion greatly.

Once dismissed, Ron returned to his desk to see that the others were arriving at the office. The workshop was already producing its usual cacophony of clangs and bangs, those back from patrol were jotting down their field reports, and Roy and Perry were practicing swordplay again, judging from the sounds of swordplay coming from one of the training rooms.

'Care for a quick sparring contest?' Simone said, as she turned off her computer, 'I could use a punching bag.'

'Ha ha,' Ron laughed mockingly, 'thanks, but no thanks. As.. tempting as that sounds, I'm going to have to restrain myself.'

'Suit yourself,' she said, as she twisted lithely and took off in the direction of training room four. As she passed him, her hand gently brushed his arm, momentarily connecting one of the fine, circular lines on the back of her hands with the angular, dark-grey lines so very prominent on his lower arm. An image invaded his mind for a single moment, just as long as the lines were connected, and he could see himself sparring with Simone. Sweat was running down both of them, and Ron's normally baggy outfit was clinging to his body. He saw her knocking him off his feet with a well-placed sweep, then pinning him down on the ground, her face but inches from his. Their faces closing in on each other, the hot air of her breath making it hard for him to think about anything but her brown eyes. Her lips, parting just slightly as they were about to connect. Suddenly, the image was gone.

'Damn that woman,' Ron thought, 'Damn ALL women.'

Simone darted off, glancing in his direction only once, a face of false innocence clearly visible. Ron proceeded out the main entrance, and went down the elevator to the main lobby. Somewhere between the thirtieth and twentieth floor, he apparated out. Off to his apartment, to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

It was three hours later that Ron awoke feeling refreshed. He needed little sleep; something like four or five hours spread out over a week was enough. His appetite had increased though, since he now burned off quite a lot more. His body, bulkier and completely exercised, could function an average of twenty-three hours a day, including an average of eight to nine hours in the gym each day. Some of the others that had gone through The Experiment had experienced similar results, though Ron was unique in his endurance. The closest follower was a witch from Trinidad that could function around twenty hours a day, though without any hard physical exercise. Ron now ate four meals per day, eating another dinner around midnight. He quickly devoured a dozen sandwiches and a muffin, before crossing over to his private gym. The room was magically enhanced, at least double the size of what it should be, and warded with several ancient and powerful spells. An ordinary wizard would find it hard to enter his apartment, and impossible to enter his gym. He had used some rather obscure wards, the existence of which known to perhaps a handful of wizards around the globe.

Ron sat down in a meditative position then closed his eyes. He tried to empty his mind. Slowly, he became more aware of his surroundings. He could sense the room's dimensions. He could almost taste the magic he had placed on this room himself. He could feel the layers of reality, each defining key elements of the world we live in. Meditation was... difficult for Ron. His mind, was always full of ideas and thoughts, and clearing it took considerable effort. His mind was wandering again, as it always did in the beginning of his meditation. He could see Neville's face, a mixture of shock and joy as he reacquainted himself with his old friend. He could see that instant of recognition, followed by doubt as his new appearance became clearer. He'd seen that doubt and shock before of course, but it still made him feel uneasy. Was his decision to undergo The Experiment right? Had he not made a mistake, agreeing to such a radical transformation? It had meant cutting all ties. ALL ties. Family, friends, lovers. Ah, there he face was, swimming to the front of his thoughts as always, just beneath the surface. Her curly hair, her smooth skin, the sweet taste of her lips. That departure had been the hardest. The tears, the anger, the incomprehension. He had closely monitored her (like so many of his colleagues monitored their former lovers) all this time. Checking to make sure she was right. Watching over her. Pining over her.

'Focus.' Ron thought.

Again, he tried to clear his mind. Again, his thoughts wandered off. To Simone now, purposefully connecting their pigmentation lines to deliver that mental picture. Physical contact was minimal between operatives at the office. Connecting the lines was connecting your thoughts, and most of them preferred privacy. It came in handy, especially to convey messages at the battlefront. A picture really did speak a thousand words. He re-lived that made-up moment in the gym. The longing to kiss her was even greater now (even though he knew he wasn't in love with her), his mind creatively adding some details and removing some garments from that already underdressed fantasy.

'Focus!' Ron thought.

Ron's mind was emptied again, this time more completely. He set aside his personal life (or what was left of it) and began searching for answers. Answers to questions he had yet to form. Unlike his colleagues, Ron meditated by letting his mind wander after it had been cleared. His colleagues often pushed stray thoughts aside, single-mindedly delving for that one answer they needed. Ron felt that his way might take a little longer, it also tended to supply answers to questions he hadn't yet formed, or didn't deem necessary at first. Focussed, his mind probed around his experiences with the Centurions. He relived his first visit to their world. The odd feeling of vertigo that was constantly present, the strange way colours seemed to blend together, but only in the places your eyes weren't focussing on. How sharp their world was, making him experience our own world as blurry the moment he returned to it. Why was their reality so small? Why was it so confined? What was outside that large citadel they inhabited? None had yet found any windows. What was in that room they protected?

Ron remembered his first visit to their reality. It had only just been found, and little was known about it. He was apprenticed under Master Makuta then, still learning about the limitations of his new body (or rather, the lack thereof). The Experiment had been particularly rough on him, but it had resulted in a much higher degree of success. He actively steered his mind away from remembering The Experiment. No good would come, delving into that memory. instead, he remembered the officials, visiting his house. He had been living on his own in one of the little villages in Britain's great outdoors, regularly sleeping over at Hermione's. It was a Thursday afternoon. He had just started his internship at the ministry, and the long hours were wearing on him. He had let the two wizards in, after checking their identity.

'We would like to offer you a unique opportunity,' one of them said with a slightly arab accent, 'something the International Safety Board doesn't offer just anybody.'

'The International Safety Board?' Ron replied, 'I've never heard of that organisation. Is it new?'

'No, mister Weasley, but I assure you, it's been around for a while. Our organisation benefits from being unknown to the general public.'

Ron later found out they would have cleaned his memory if he had refused. But Ron hadn't. He had accepted the job the men had offered. The ISB was much larger than he had imagined; an organisation with more than a hundred operatives in different parts of the world. Always remaining in the shadows, the organisation had prevented several all-out wars during its five-hundred year existence. Their operatives actively scanned the world for dangerous activities, stepping in and preventing wizards or witches meddling with forces beyond their control. Apparently, the world really was full of idiots...

The Experiment was something they had been working on for more than a century. The general idea was that wizards's crucial weakness lay in their dependency of their wand. A wizard without a wand was an easy target. In an effort to better protect their operatives, the Supervisors had decided to investigate ways to counter this dependency. A real breakthrough had been achieved when they had found a way to merge a wizard with his wand. It was a complex spell, and the first few tests quickly proved the dangers of these merges. Uncontrolled, the wizards soon lost all control over their body and mind. Many lives were lost trying to round up those first, insane test subjects.

Having learned from their failures, the Supervisors continued the project, but now with several safeguards in place. The pigmentation lines were a result of those. Containing the magic, channelling it, the test subjects came out considerably more powerful, but also considerably saner. Now, the Supervisors had finally protected their operatives from a crucial weakness, and in doing so, had also made them much more efficient. Ron was among the fourth group of test subjects, perhaps the fourteenth of fifteenth person to undergo the Experiment in its revised form.

Those first weeks after the transformation stood out clearly in his mind. It was as if a blanket had been removed from him, and he could experience the world for the first time. Every breath he took was filled with scents and flavours, every sound more vibrant and alive. His vision had improved, and night no longer held any secrets in its deep shadows. His physical strength was the result of an exercise program devised by his master Makuta, a half-insane African wizard that had travelled the world and spent years in meditation. He took Ron under his wing, guiding him to discover himself.

Ron was sure that without Makuta, he would never have become so in tune with his body. More than any other operative that had undergone The Experiment, Ron had managed near-perfect control of both his new magical skills and his physical form. Sadly, Makuta wasn't the best guide for spiritual enlightenment, something his colleagues had much better control over. Still, Ron wouldn't change a thing.

Again his mind slipped away. Like so often these days, his memories of that one perfect girl swam forward again, this time mingled with some 'creative thinking' on his part. He was pretty sure Hermione hadn't been wearing that on their quest for the Horcruxes, and she definitely wasn't that friendly when he returned to them after his long absence.

Ron spent a few hours meditating. After that, he went through his regular exercise schedule. A short warming up, some stretches, some fitness. After that, he walked to the middle of the room. Most of the equipment in his gym was spread out along the walls. The interior was empty. Ron stood in the middle, and began his first Poomse. Taekwondo had his fancy ever since he'd first come into contact with it. Master Makuta had advised him to choose one fighting style and master it. Other styles had to be explored, but being an expert in one was mandatory.

He fondly remembered the long days in the Himalaya's. The Experiment was still fresh in his mind then. It had not been easy, and certainly not without pain. His memories of the Experiment were etched into his mind. Makuta had created a highly intensive training schedule, that had to be done in the most desolate and inhospitable of places. Together, they had apparated to India, travelling the rest of the route by foot. The new environments, the people they met, all of it was to keep his mind from reliving that terrible moment.

Makuta had chosen a difficult path through the mountains. Though Ron was considerably younger, Makuta scaled the tops of the mountains easily. He continually talked to Ron, both in English and in Kirundi, his native language. Though he could only understand half of what he was saying, the message was probably always the same: stop complaining.

Ron had reached the end of his strength when Makuta finally halted their impossible pace. Having walked deeply into the Himalaya's, Makuta ordered Ron to dig through a wall of snow. It took another four hours of digging when Ron's hands, numb with cold, had finally punched a hole in the snow. Behind the wall was a cave. It was there that Ron would be living for the next two years.

Ron had flawlessly performed the first five Poomses without thought. His mind was still in the cave that he had grown to love so dearly. It had been early spring when Makuta and Ron had taken shelter in the cave. It was barely fifteen feet deep, and hardly ten across. Makuta began his first lessons in meditation then, explaining the basic steps as slowly as possible. Ron's chaotic mind proved hard to quell, so Makuta, having given up on his earlier tactic of smacking Ron over the head, tried a new approach. He set up a rigorous schedule of physical, magical, and mental exercises. Ron was introduced to different forms of melee combat, he was pushed to the extreme magically, and when his body simply couldn't go on anymore, was forced to clear his mind and meditate. Empty of energy, his mind became much more clear, and this certainly helped Ron focus in the first stages of his meditation.

Meanwhile, Ron had switched to Hyongs. His body, remembering all the moves through repetition, perfectly executed the forms of style.

Makuta had developed a nasty cough in those last months on their mountain. Ron had offered to help, knowing his magical skills were able to heal most problems, but Makuta had refused. Instead, Ron was to dig holes with a shovel, then fill them magically. It was a mindless job, and Ron had taken to meditation to pass those dull hours. Sometimes, he'd do the Poomses or other stylistic forms, like those of Karate or Jiu-jitsu, in his mind. It wasn't until Makuta mentioned it that he realized he'd spent a full twenty-four hours digging and filling holes.

It is a defining trait for men to be able to bond with each other without exchanging more than five words a day. Ron began searching for the limits of his body, an part of his training Makuta could help only little with. As the days progressed Makuta became more silent. Speaking only when necessary, and few words even then, the two could have passed for mutes to most. Instead, the men communicated in gestures; a spoon of gravy hanging over a meal, not replied to, and thus accepted; a raising of a hand, to indicate a stop on a trek. Makuta and Ron exchanged little in term of words, but the bond that had been forged was strong as steel.

Ron still felt guilty about Makuta's death. In the beginning, Ron had simply offered to heal Makuta's cough out of common courtesy. As time progressed and their bond tightened, Ron became more and more concerned for his old friend's declining health. The coughing had gone from sporadic, to continuous. Makuta started wheezing in his sleep, and regularly stopped their trek to the nearest village because of his shortness of breath. In those last few months, Ron made those treks alone. They were necessary (the men had to eat something), and by not bringing Makuta, Ron could now run the distance. Makuta also started explaining things about the world. He frequently spoke of the layers of reality, explaining this or that. He also tended to mix those scientific observations with his own beliefs. That everything could have a spirit, a soul. The cave they inhabited, the bread they were eating, the thunderclouds in the distance, even the lighting that shot down from it. Everything had its place in the world, and the layers of reality were the central points around which everything revolved. It was fascinating to hear him talk, even though Ron had his doubts about those spirits.

He returned from one of the treks to a nearby village one summer evening. He had bartered well; three cases of vegetables for just seventy rupees, when he noticed that Makuta was coughing again. It sounded different this time. Ron entered the cave and found his master on his bed. His eyesight had gone.

'Master,' he pleaded, 'allow me to heal you! I can probably fix whatever is ailing you.'

'No, Ronald,' Makuta said, obviously straining to get the words out, 'whatever happens, happens. I return to my ancestors a proud man. My spirit is trying to free itself from the shackles of its body. Let it. I've been around too long as it is.'

All night long, Ron tried to change his friend's mind, but Makita never wavered. Just before dawn, he requested his wand, a formality. Weeping openly, Ron reached for the ebony stick. Upon contact, something incredible happened.

Ron's body, merged with his own wand, interacted with Makuta's wand. It showed him many, if not all of his master's magical interactions. Some were incredible; a fight with a dragon, an impossible spell shaken from his wrist as if it was the easiest thing imaginable. Some were emotional; the burial of his muggle wife. The burial of three of his children. The wedding of his eldest son, including the ritual slaughter of a goat. Some were indecent; little tricks in the dead of night, tiny magical prods that made the woman he was after just a bit more susceptible for his advances. Some were frustrated; The failed students. The weak-minded accepting all he said as a truth. Makuta had lived a full life, starting around 1850 and going through all walks of life. He had been born in a limestone shack, had worked his way up to a mansion outside London, only to decide to die in a cave. Ron found out he knew of his disease; the doctors had told him he'd had perhaps six months to live. It had turned out to be twenty-seven.

Passing the wand to his master, the tears stopped. Makuta was right. His life had been full. Full of joy. Full of sorrow. Makuta had seen the faces of the world. Makuta had spat in each of them.

'Now, you understand?' he mumbled, his African accent thick.

'Yes,' Ron said, 'but I can't accept it.'

'You must. It is part of life.'

'But you could have such good years yet. Why not travel round the sun a few more times?'

Makuta chuckled. 'In all my years, you are my most promising student. Such drive. Such loyalty to your cause. Never lose that.'

'I won't.'

Makuta moved his shoulders a little, trying to get comfortable. 'Do you remember our conversation a couple of months ago? We discussed missed opportunities and wrong choices.'

Ron nodded, knowing exactly what had been discussed.

'Find her. Talk to her. I've been with the ISB for over a hundred years. You want to know what I found out? Screw secrecy and screw protocol. Follow your heart, Ronald. Promise me that.'

It wasn't long after. Makuta smiled and turned to Ron, asking him to burn his body as was his people's custom. Once agreed upon, he simply stopped breathing. As he did everything in his life, Makuta decided what happened. Even in death, it seemed like his decision. Then, Ron experienced what he could only describe later on as Makuta's soul departing. Something had changed. It was intangible. Some aspect of the cave had changed, as if something fundamental to its existence had suddenly departed with Makuta's heartbeat.

Ron realized he had been standing still in the middle of his gym for a few minutes. He practiced a few more moves, then animated a stuffed doll to spar with. Remembering Makuta always got him fighting harder and longer than before. His promise now weighed heavy on his heart. Should he really violate protocol and talk to Hermione? He'd have quite a bit to explain, and that wouldn't be possible without divulging at least some classified information. It was that which had kept him from going straight to her when he had reached Britain.

Ron changed into one of his field duty outfits and apparated out, to the ministry of magic. He would be patrolling the deepest levels of the department of mysteries. He had decided to visit Hogwarts again after that patrol. Just to make sure everything was going according to plan.

Patrolling proved to be every bit as dull as he had expected it to be. The Centurions were absent, the department was filled with employees rushing hither and tither, making a point in not communicating with the operatives. Roy was talkative today, discussing some quidditch news and casually asking after Jill's favourite meal. He had really made quite some work of it, trying to get it to sound casual, even going into a long monologue about the eating habits of merfolk building up the stage for his most important question. Ron would probably have missed it a few years ago, but his way of thinking had changed a little, and he rarely missed these sorts of subtle things now.

'I don't know, Roy,' he replied coolly, but just too late for the reply to be anything but knowledgeable, 'perhaps you should ask her.'

Obviously embarrassed, Roy spent the next few minutes in silence. It was funny how such a strong guy (for Roy was the burliest bloke Ron knew, and The Experiment had made him stronger than a giant) could be so childlike sometimes.

After filing in a quickly drafted field report about the afternoon, Ron apparated out to the forbidden forest. He walked up to the edge of the treeline, seeing some students ambling over to the Main Hall. The sun was setting, and the corridors and classrooms of Hogwarts would be empty soon. It was unseasonably cold this fall, and Hogwarts's corridors were too cold and damp for anyone to want to break curfew for. Settling himself down with his back against a tree, he made himself comfortable, all the while studying the edge of the lake.

A few hours later, the darkness had engulfed Hogwarts. Without a moon (there were some heavy clouds in the sky) the outline of the castle seemed more mystical than ever. Hogwarts was different now. Here and there, his memory reminded him of a window now gone, or a wall where a balcony now resided. There had been some extensive modifications to the back of the school, now supporting three new greenhouses and some new classrooms.

Ron slowly got up from the ground, brushing off the dead leaves and twigs that clung to his clothes. He fastened the hood and cape that served to hide his features, then slowly crossed the grassy lot that surrounded Hogwarts. He made a full pass around the castle (a walk that took nearly half an hour), then decided to enter the school through a window left open on the first floor. Once inside, he headed out to the astronomy tower. Smelling the familiar scent of Hogwarts was a joy. The castle had been his home for so long, and every turn, every corridor, every staircase held memories of that time long gone. He continued walking up until he reached the base of the astronomy tower. Again, he stopped momentarily. It wasn't voluntary. The sight of the staircase ever reminded him of his brother's ruined face and that night in his sixth year.

Though he would never remember that night as anything other than a complete and utter nightmare, it had served to teach him two things that would define his personality later on. Firstly, it had made it clear to Ron that in life, everything could be brittle. His brother's mortality had never consciously entered his mind, until he had found Bill there, laying in a pool of his own blood. Ron had lost his childish thoughts on life that night. Death could come for us all. Even for those we hold dearest. Then there was Dumbledore. He had seemed like a universal constant; there was no magical world without him, as there was no world without God for the religious.

The second lesson was that not all was as lost as it might seem. Hogwarts had been saved, even if the price had been steep. Bill had lived, even though the scars of that night had never faded. His will to survive, his ability to still laugh and enjoy his life with Fleur and the kids, had made all the more clear that even though people might die, one should focus on the possibility that they will live. The wizarding world had lost Dumbledore, but continued on none the less.

Meanwhile, Ron was striding up the spiral staircase, effortlessly climbing higher. He was barely ten steps away from reaching the platform at the top when suddenly, a figure stepped in front of the opening. He recognised her outline immediately, it being etched into his mind after so many years of being with her. He stopped. Her hands were on her hips, and though there was little light, he could clearly see the scowl on her face.

'You bastard,' she said. Hermione's voice was deep and low, as always when she was well and truly enraged. She pointed her wand at him. Twice she opened her mouth, only to close it again. Her eyes were narrowed. Ron involuntarily took a step back. He had seen her like this only once, and it had broken his heart.

'H-Hermione,' he said, raising his hands slowly in defence, 'Think now. Don't do anything... rash.'

'Rash?' she said sharply. 'Fine words, coming from your mouth.'

'Put your wand down, Hermione. This isn't necessary. I know you are angry with me, but let's not resort to violence.'

'Angry?', she said, breathing heavily, 'Angry? I was angry with you more than two years ago. Since then, it's evolved into something much more potent.' She took a step forward, and again, Ron stepped back involuntarily.

'For four years, you told me I was the love of your life. We shared everything. EVERYTHING! And then you come over unannounced, in the dead of the night, to tell me we're over?'

Ron knew that any sane wizard would have bolted down the stairs by now. Hermione was punctuating every word with a jab of her wand, and twice now, it had briefly sparked. There was a mad fury in her voice and she was poised on the balls of her feet, apparently ready to pounce him. The only thing that held him there, high on the astronomy tower, was the knowledge that everything she had said was true. There were no excuses. He had no soothing answers.


End file.
